Batman Black and White: The Girl in White
by CosmicInbalance
Summary: One-shot about little boy Bruce. Completely random.


Batman Black and White: The Girl in White

A/N: If I was asked to write a Batman Black & White, this would probably be my story, thus the title.

…

When Bruce Wayne entered the third grade, he was the most popular kid in school. Girls fawned over him in that cutesy pre-preteen sort of way, before they knew what love meant. The boys, even the older ones, respected him. He was smart. Polite. The teachers loved him. "He's so handsome!" they squealed. And truth be told, he was a James Bond in miniature. Sparkling blue eyes, a mischievous smile, black hair falling in a comma just above his right eye, and a sturdy frame that promised height and strength. This was Bruce Wayne as he was meant to be.

It all changed on one October Friday night. Two shots, two bodies, one Bruce- orphaned and alone. My father was an executive at Wayne Enterprises, so I was, of course dragged off to the Waynes' funeral. I refused to wear black, copying my mom's complaint that it made me look pasty. Instead, I selected a white sleeveless number that was completely unsuited to a fall funeral. I didn't care. It wasn't like I was trying to impress anyone, least of all Bruce. He was really just an acquaintance- this was third grade after all, and he was a boy.

I didn't care for funerals. Honestly, who does? So I stayed to the shadows, away from all of the people in dark clothing talking in hushed voices. I watched Bruce and pitied him. They had set him up in a chair, and a long line of people were coming up one by one and offering condolences. I watched as my father bent nearly double and shook hands with Bruce, like he was kowtowing to a little emperor or something. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. If I was him, I would just want to be left alone, not patronized by adults interested in his trust fund.

At the cemetery, I leaned against a tree and watched as people dabbed their eyes. Bruce threw roses someone had given him into each grave, and then stepped back as the priest announced "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust." The look on Bruce's face was beyond misery. It was as if he was on a different plane, completely removed from everything. Later, as my father pulled me away to the car, I looked back for one inexplicable moment. Bruce was being carefully escorted away by an older gentleman. He glanced over his shoulder and locked eyes with me. They were startlingly hard, like sapphires. A brief flicker of confusion followed by recognition flickered across his face. Then the car door slammed, and he was gone.

Bruce missed the rest of the first semester entirely, which was probably a good thing, considering all of the gossip. Yes, the Waynes' deaths introduced that typically adolescent idea to our young minds, and rumors ran rife through the third grade, spurred on by contacts in the older grades. They said that Mr. Wayne killed his wife and then himself in front of Bruce. Others disagreed; Bruce had masterminded the plot and had paid off the gunman. Still more said that the demon of Gotham had attacked the Waynes and then possessed Bruce. I always turned my nose up at these silly fantasies. Couldn't they accept that the city was a dangerous place, even for its own first family?

My mother always said I was a pragmatic child. My father would snort, and say," More cynical than pragmatic," before turning away.

I remember one school day not long after the funeral particularly clearly. "All right, children, settle down," said our teacher, a spindly older woman who was too kind for her own good. "Today, we are going to write letters of condolence to a classmate of ours: Bruce Wayne." A sandy haired boy named Benny Park raised his hand.

"Mrs. Lutrel, what's a codolence?"

"Good question, Benny," said Mrs. Lutrel. She turned to the board and wrote the word 'condolence' in her narrow handwriting. "Condolences are like saying you are sorry," she explained, turning back to the class.

Terrance Phillips, class troublemaker, looked panicked. "I didn't do anything to Bruce!" A few kids, myself included snickered. Needless to say that while Mrs. Lutrel was very kindly, our principal was not.

Mrs. Lutrel looked at Terrance patiently. "Of course you didn't do anything to him. Expressing your condolences is like saying that you are sorry for something that neither of you have control over. In this case, you are sorry that Bruce's parents were... have died. It's like…" Mrs. Lutrel waved her hands the way she did when she was searching for a word.

I raised my hand. "You mean like sympathy, Mrs. Lutrel."

"Exactly!" beamed Mrs. Lutrel. "Remind me to give you a star, my dear." I rolled my eyes inwardly at the idea of adding another star to my 'good discipline' chart. Yes, I was somewhat of a teacher's pet, but that was due to the fact that I was smart and acting out just wasn't in my nature, no matter how much I disdained authority.

"Sympathy. Can anyone tell me what that means?" asked Mrs. Lutrel. A few hands raised tentatively into the air. Mine was not among them. I contributed enough. "Ally," selected Mrs. Lutrel.

Ally, a shy dark-eyed girl squirmed in her seat slightly. I recognized her ploy: raise your hand and hope that the teacher calls on someone that is staring off into space. "Umm, sympathy is like feeling sorry for someone?"

Mrs. Lutrel smiled. "Perfect, my dear." Ally grinned at her good fortune while the rest of the class had a collective 'oh!' moment.

Mrs. Lutrel passed out blank cards and colored pencils, and we got down to it. I considered the blank paper in front of me. What to write? While I was smart, I wasn't exactly the best at comforting people. Too 'pragmatic' and 'cynical'. I picked up a black pen and wrote 'sorry' on the front of the card in big letters. On the inside I wrote, "Dear Bruce, I bet you are getting tired of hearing 'sorry' by now, so I'm just going to say it one more time: sorry." I studied the sentence. Maybe I oughtta write something touchy-feely? I added a piece of advice I used when my father or mother was being thoughtlessly cruel: "Remember the good times and not the bad. It'll never be enough to fix anything, but it'll help." Proudly, I sealed it into an envelope and handed it to Mrs. Lutrel. It was only after I returned to my seat that I realized I hadn't signed my name.

When Bruce came back at the beginning of the second semester, it was a surprise to everyone. If it wasn't so sad, it would be comical the way that he had a personal bubble that no one dared to enter. As if becoming an orphan was contagious. He didn't try to talk to his old friends. He never raised his hand in class. He wore shades of black and gray monochrome. He ate his lunch alone, frightening anyone who came near with a hard sapphire glare.

Two weeks after his return, I had enough. I had no patience for the whispering and the moping. So that day at lunch, I sat down next to him as if we'd been best friends our whole lives. He turned on the Bruce-glare. I ignored him completely. He shifted like he wanted to move, but all of the other tables were full. Not to mention staring at us. I floundered a minute, realizing I didn't have any idea what to say. So I dug into my brown-bag lunch packed by the cook and ate in silence, not sparing Bruce a glance. At the lunch bell, I said, "See ya," and stood to leave. "Wait," said a quiet voice. I turned back and looked into his eyes. "You were the girl in white." It was a statement, not a question. "Did you write that letter?"

"Yes, " I said simply.

We ate lunch together every day for the rest of the year. We never spoke a word. It was some sort of silent pact we had forged. Sometimes I would read my advanced-level books, and he would follow along. When the lunch bell would ring, I would say "See ya," and vanish into the crowd without a backward look. He still wore blacks, still had his bitter glare, still never talked to his old friends. But he would raise his hand in class and ask questions, a look of determination on his still childishly soft face. I never interacted with him beyond lunch. My friends never tried to join us, nor did they comment on it.

On the very last day of school, the teachers let everyone outside to eat ice cream. He and I sat next to each other in a secluded spot as I licked my vanilla and he his chocolate. Once we were both done, I stood and made to leave.

Just as I was about to toss "See ya" over my shoulder, I heard the same quiet "Wait" I had heard months before. I met his blue eyes. They were far older than his eight-year-old frame. Still as hard and as brilliant as sapphires. "I don't know your name," he said. A statement, not a question. We had been in the same class all year, but I didn't blame him. He had bigger things on his mind. You could see it when he would zone out looking out the window: a trace of determination in his brow, the hard line of his tense jaw.

"You don't need to," I replied. And he didn't, not really. It just wasn't important.

Bruce nodded. "Okay. Thanks."

"For what?"

Bruce looked contemplative. After all, all I had done was sit with him. "For the letter. And for just... Being."

I smiled a little at that. "You're welcome." The muscles around Bruce's mouth twitched. In the distance, I could hear our teacher's voice calling us in.

"Bye, girl in white," he whispered.

"See ya, boy in black," I replied, before leaving him standing alone under the hot summer sun.

Quiet, reserved, and haunted is how Bruce Wayne left the third grade, eyes burning sapphire-bright, sapphire-hard. This was the way I knew him.

I never saw him again.


End file.
